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A Winter’s Breath
Outside the wind blew chill across the white stones and
beat the wooden shutters against the window. The sound had become
rather rhythmic and expected so that the old woman had stopped
hearing it some time ago. Winter’s icy fingers slipped under the
heavy wooden door causing the flames in the fireplace to flicker and
dance, exuding the most life this abode could hope to see.
She sat in the wooden chair, as always, and watched the
fire. Seeking the warmth that no flame can bring a person alone in
this world, she reached out a wrinkled hand anyway; pleading for
comfort. Flames reflected in her dark and dead eyes; eyes as deep
pools that held ages of living long past.
Her heart was as ice and had been since that day. A person
can only endure so much pain and then one must escape as one may.
One must find haven within if there is not one without. Such was her
destiny she had come to believe. Such was her fate.
Why did things have to change? What was the catalyst that
stole her future? When did the sun cease to shine and when did the
warmth leave this world?
She closed her eyes and was a young woman again; in the
spring of her life. She was happy and the sound of laughter
surrounded her. Friends filled her house and her family’s embrace
was a comfort and an expectation.
“Come on Mearilnas!” shouted her younger brother as he
tugged at her skirts. “Come to the market with me! There is a wagon
just arrived! I watched it pass! Let’s be first! Come on!”
Mearilnas laughed at this exuberance and allowed herself to
be tugged forward. She ran out the door and waved over her shoulder
to her parents; amusement shone on their faces. “We’ll be back
soon!”
In the Marketplace the crowds were gathering, and bartering
was already taking place. Newly arrived goods tarried on carts for
precious little time before being claimed by anxious-faced shoppers
eager for something new or needed from outside the walls of the
White City.
Her family was poor and so they had little money, but she
was very talented with a needle and thread. She took any old clothes
she could find, any scraps of fabric and with great care trimmed
them into shapes that she sewed together to create beautiful quilted
mosaics. She was able to sell these and help put food on the table
at home. They were happy and so didn’t know they were poor. They had
love and laughter. They had food to eat and warm beds. There were
always scraps to be found for sewing and always friends for company
as busy fingers worked.
The young man that drove the cart was very handsome and
Mearilnas blushed when he smiled at her; looking her directly in the
eyes and holding her gaze. She soon averted them for fear of giving
this stranger the wrong idea, but couldn’t help glancing back up at
him. His skin was tanned from exposure to the sun and his muscles
testified to the physical labor he was used to doing.
Mearilnas’ brother tugged at her skirts again. “Look at
that ball!” he exclaimed grinning at her. He was much younger than
she and still a child. His zest for life was infectious. Holding the
ball aloft he addressed the young man. “How much sir?”
These would be the last words he spoke as only screams and
gasps could be heard next. The sun went to black and the earth
trembled. Everyone in the marketplace scrambled like ants on a
rocking log to find their balance. A foul smell filled the air and
the breeze was unnatural; air pushed across their faces by the huge
wingspan of fell beasts. Darkness blanketed her and she knew no
more.
When she awoke she was in the Houses of Healing and she
couldn’t remember her name. She tried to speak and found that she
couldn’t remember how to move her tongue and lips nor how to make
sound. She tried to move her arms and they would not obey her
commands. Her thoughts were as shrouded as her existence.
How long she lay there she did not know. There was little
she did know. Time passed and no one she recognized appeared before
her. No one she knew came to see her and no one spoke her name or
called her at all. The healers passed her in the day and they passed
her in the night as summer turned to autumn and the cool air arrived
from the north.
Only her eyes moved and her field of vision was framed as
the window she could see ahead of her. The tree in the yard grew and
changed from green to orange and as the nakedness overcame it she
realized her own bare life was but a skeleton of what it must have
been.
When the buds poked out and small flowers appeared a few
familiar thoughts came to her mind, but still she could not move and
could not speak. As the flowers bloomed she recalled her name…
Mearilnas, but could tell no one. When the green foliage thickly
filled the negative space between the branches she recalled her
family and her friends, but could call them not.
Time passed, seasons changed and in the fullness of things
her past was returned to her long before her body woke to
remembrance of feeling and movement. Many years later, in the fall
of the year as the leaves rustled outside on the tree, that now was
thick brown with bark where before only a small willowy youngster
stood, she reached out her hand. As the leaves began to drop from
the branches, thick and strong, she found herself able at last to
sit up.
Her muscles groaned and resisted the movement. They had
grown almost as hard as the stone of the city over time. When she
sat forward her hair spilled forth from her shoulders and she looked
upon it for the first time since that day. Had she not been in her
own body she would not have recognized the silver that cascaded
across her breast. Her brows furrowed and wrinkled hands reached up
to feel a face full of the lines of time; as creased as the bark on
the now-aged tree outside the window.
People came that she knew not and rejoiced for her
awakening and her progress and her mobility. Fully she had come of
to be healed and fully she had come of age. She was taken to a small
room that was comfortable enough in one of the houses of the city.
There she could have her own place and live again! That was what
they said. They placed her by the fire in the wooden chair and they
brought her bread and food regularly.
Hope filled their faces and one day they handed her a
mirror so that she might see her own. Slowly she lifted the looking
glass and stared at the stranger looking back at her. Her mind
rejected this impossible season in her life, come too soon. Her mind
screamed and broke; shattering her reality with shards of a
splintered life that passed from spring straight on into winter and
robbed her of time and memory.
Winter’s breath comes down from the mountains and brings
with it the chill of frozen time that cannot be thawed. Her dark
eyes denied the reality of the day. Her empty soul denied the
reality of the night. As Winter deepened, so she folded inwards ever
seeking that elusive warmth of the stolen seasons…
By Laielinwen
Winner of Fireside Tales February 06
A Voice in the Dark
The door to the Dragons Den Tavern creaked open on age rusted
hinges releasing a burst of heat and stale smoke into the crisp
night air like the exhalation of some great beast in its lair. Ernos
hesitantly stepped inside, he was a young man barely seventeen with
a slight frame and a shock of red hair. He carried a large package
which he clung to nervously as he scanned the dim room, a group of
surly looking men sat at a table covered in empty tankards and small
heaps of coins and pilfered jewellery, they were swearing profusely
as they played a game of dice for winnings. Beside the fire a
haggard tinker sat inhaling on a pipe, puffing out great plumes of
acrid smoke into the room, his bright beady eyes followed Ernos as
he awkwardly made his way to the bar.
The gruff barkeep stood behind the bar, leaning forwards to rest
on his thick, heavily tattooed arms he nodded at the young mans
request for an Ale, a grim smile crossing his bearded face as he
drew a tankard for the lad. Ernos dropped a coin into the landlords
hand before retreating to an empty table near the hearth. He placed
his package onto the grubby table and looked around the room once
more, unsurprisingly this was his first visit to the notorious inn,
drinking hole to the scum of Minas Tirith. Most respectable citizens
steered well clear of this hive of lawlessness which was exactly why
Ernos had come here.
Ernos was an orphan having lost both of his parents at the mere
age of seven, he had thus been passed from relative to relative
being little but a burden to them all until finally he’d had enough,
so two months ago he packed his meagre belongings and took to the
streets to make his own way by whatever means.
Ernos was no stranger to the hustle and bustle of the lower
circles of the white city, he’d often been left to his own devices
as a child, few of his carers were interested in how he spent his
days, mostly he was left to wander and socialise as he pleased. He’d
picked up a few tricks in his time, childish illegalities that kept
him fed and watered with clothes on his back, pick pocketing for the
most part.
Chance would have it that something bigger had fallen in his lap,
he’d been skulking around the upper circles of the city, enviously
admiring the fine houses and trespassing in the ornate gardens and
courtyards when he’d come across an open window. Checking all was
quiet he’d slipped inside to find a neat and ordered study, rich
paintings depicting the Stewards and gentry of the city hung upon
the walls along with various military paraphernalia. A large wooden
desk stood at one end of the room strewn with maps, reports and
scrolls, Ernos padded over and fingered the papers, he was virtually
illiterate but not stupid, these were obviously important documents,
many were written on headed paper and bore the insignia of the Elite
Ranger Corps. Ernos gathered together as many scrolls as he could,
stuffing them into the pockets of his short cloak before slipping
out of the window and legging it back to the sanctity of the first
circle.
Perched upon a wall that overlooked the Butteries in the
Marketplace Ernos mulled over the recent events, he was not sure why
he’d done it, greed, habit, opportunity, perhaps all and at first
he’d thought about throwing the papers away, if he was caught with
these he could land himself in a lot of trouble, no swift beating by
the Tower Guard for this, oh no, straight to the dungeon and left to
rot he thought to himself. He’d have to get rid of the papers, sell
them to someone, but whom, Ernos didn’t know any criminals in the
city, certainly no-one who’d be interested in buying information of
this kind, but he might be able to find a middle man, someone who
could point him in the right direction and the only place he’d find
anyone like that was the infamous Dragons Den Tavern.
Sipping his Ale Ernos was trying to muster the courage to
approach the gamblers, they certainly looked unsavoury enough,
unsavoury enough to just spit in his face and tell him to get lost
but Ernos’ greed was growing, there could be good money in his find.
His thoughts were however interrupted by the tinker, “oi you lad,
you at the table,” Ernos tried to ignore him and stared at the dirty
tankard that he clutched, “what you doin in ere boy, clean yer face
up a bit and you’d have skin smoother than an elves behind, you
don’t belong in ere boy, ger off with yer.” Ernos shifted
uncomfortably in his seat “I’m just trying to have a quiet drink if
you’ll leave me in peace,” The old man grinned revealing no more
than four stumpy yellowed teeth, shuffling over he pulled up a chair
and leant closer to the nervous youth. It was only now that Ernos
could see him clearly, he wasn‘t as old as he‘d first appeared, no
more than forty, a sparse beard covered his face, clearing to show
his small glinting eyes and pursed lips, a deep scar ran down his
left cheek and under his chin, the cut must have become infected at
some point as ugly lumps had formed along the wound and the skin
looked taut and unnatural. Ernos shuddered.
“Let me tell you a tale,” the man leaned in close until his
breath hissed into Ernos’ ear, “let me tell you a tale about a man
who not so long ago had sat in this very pub drinking as you do now,
his name was Avros” Ernos became uncomfortable, he was itching to
escape the crazy man and his story, he had business to do but the
man slid his chair across the filthy wooden floor trapping him
between the wall and the table. “He weren’t as young as you, in his
twenties if memory serves, he’d come up from Dol Amroth looking for
work, a little rough around the edges but not a bad guy, well one
day he was wandering round the Marketplace looking for work and he
came across a strange man, Leuca was his name, anyways he told Avros
about a problem he was having shifting some pipe weed, he didn’t
have the time but it was proper nice stuff, reckons he’d bought a
load of it off some hobbit up near Bree. Well poor Avros he was
short of cash, he’d been a shipwright in Dol Amroth but hadn’t been
able to apply his skills to much here in the city so he was getting
desperate. Leuca told Avros to meet him the next day if he was
interested, after sunset in the Dragons Den Tavern, alone.
Ernos, accepted that he was going to have to hear the old man
through if he was going to get rid of him
“Avros didn‘t see the harm in it, it wouldn‘t be hard to sell if it
was as good as Leuca reckoned, Shire weed was easy to sell, those
Hobbits didn’t farm that much more than they consumed, so little
made it this far south. There was also the problem of his cash flow,
he couldn’t afford to pass the opportunity up, so the following
night he nervously made his way to the Shady pub.
Leuca was there as promised sitting quietly in the corner, he
bought Avros a drink and gave him a small package then leant back in
his chair. Avros took the parcel and unwrapped it carefully, inside
was a small quantity of pipe weed, nice stuff by the smell of it,
wrapping it back up he tucked it in his pocket. “What’s the deal
then?” he’d asked, Leuca told him that he could keep ten percent of
the profit, the rest would go to him to cover the costs of buying
it, they agreed to meet again the next night at the same time when
Leuca would have a larger amount for Avros to sell. So Avros shook
on the deal and left.
It had been a dark night, cold and crisp with the sliver of a new
moon shining overhead, Avros had hurried through the quiet streets
looking for the inn where he had his temporary lodgings. He didn’t
know why but his heart beat heavily in his chest, sweat gathered on
his forehead despite the wintry temperatures and he quickened his
step. An uneasy feeling had overcome Avros, he felt as though he was
being watched, the icy fingers of doubt crept up his spine, chilling
him to the bone. Turning into an alleyway he realised he was lost,
panting heavily he stood in the shadows trying desperately to gain
his bearings, that’s when it happened.”
Despite his previous misgivings Ernos now listened intently to
the tinkers tale, he was curious to find out how it would end and
the old man could see it in his eyes, he’d captivated his audience
completely and played this to his full advantage. Leaning closer his
voice dropped to a mere whisper.
“A voice, a voice in the dark, clear and cold like a winter
frost, it cut through Avros like a knife,
“Don’t move little boy or I’ll gut you like a fish.”
Avros froze, he tried to speak but his voice caught in his throat
gagging him. A knife slipped under his chin gnawing greedily at the
soft flesh, and a hand slid into his pocket to retrieve the small
parcel that was hidden there,
“Where did you get this?”
The knife pressed harder into Avros’ throat and he felt a trickle of
warm blood slip down his neck.
“f, from a man, I don’t know him, he asked me to sell it for him,
said he couldn’t do it by hisself.”
“that’s funny, looks like shire weed, don’t get much of that round
here, unless its contraband, just give me a name sweetheart and I’ll
leave you in peace.”
The knife began to slide slowly up slipping into the skin as it did
so,
Avros squirmed and feebly cried out as the cold blade cut into him
“Leuca, he didn’t give me anything else, said he’d meet me again
tomorrow in the Dragons Den.”
“Good boy, see that wasn’t so hard was it,”
Avros was released from his hold and the knife withdrawn from his
face, he turned to face his attacker finding nothing but an empty
space in the shadows.
Ernos gazed at the old man, his mouth hanging low, “but who was
he, the man in the alley,” the tinker chuckled quietly, “he was one
of them, the Muinamacari, assassins of the crown, nasty buggers they
are, some say they’re worse than the criminals, but you see turns
out that Leuca was working for others too, dealing in stolen goods
and using the profits to buy arms and southern mercenaries, nasty
business the whole thing, best kept well out of if you value your
life.”
The tinker smiled grimly at Ernos, “you reckon you could take on
one of them Grey? they know everything, if you cross the line
they’ll hunt you down like a rabid dog before putting you out of
your misery in the worst possible way.” Ernos gulped, his tankard
was empty, he shook his head and stood up, “I better go” he said to
the tinker, then squeezing past the old mans chair he bolted out of
the Dragon, depositing his package in the nearest hedge he could
find, this game wasn’t for him.
Back in the Dragon the tinker roared with laughter, the burly
barkeep ambled over to him to collect the empty tankards, “you want
another Ale Avros, or you had enough fun scaring youngsters for the
night.”
By Surion
2nd Place of Fireside Tales February 06
The Smell of life
"Hold him!" A woman screamed in a high pitched
voice. "Thief! help!"
Julian cursed his luck, for the past two years he had been able
to sneak into the better houses of Minas Tirith with out being
caught, and now he had to run the legs from his body because he was
hungry and he thought the easiest way was to snitch a purse. He had
always thought of putting money in a purse as a stupid idea since it
is so easily snatched. But now he understood why people specialised
in pick pocketing and some don't. Apparently with the years you lose
your touch. So here he was running for his life over a couple of
coins.
Hearing the heavy footsteps fallowing him Julian had no doubt
that if he turned around he would see rangers running after him.
Julian cursed to himself. Hell this is the last thing i need. Think
Julian, think. As Julian thought about a way out, he saw a huge
ranger coming out of a side street in front of him. So he turned to
the utter left part of the street to not get caught. Fool, i can't
jump over that cart. In front of him was a cart that came to over
his waist. I can do this, adrenaline should help me getting over
this obstacle. Julian prepared his jump and inches away from the
cart he jumped. He could see the look of horror on the ranger close
to him, but then he felt it. A white pain hit his shins while his
body tipped over and he saw his face speeding towards the inside of
the cart which was filled metal. Julian got pulled out of the cart
by a set of strong hands, His hands where directly bounded on his
back and got dragged to the dungeon where he was thrown into a dark
cell. As he looked around he noticed that there was no way he could
escape out of this. He only hoped we would only be charged for purse
snatching, since he was 12 he hadn't been caught and he had only
received a slap on the wrist. Now being 18 he hoped they wouldn't be
to stern.
"Ah Mister Julian, what a pleasant surprise to see you here. It’s
been a long time." The voice said with a think layer of sarcasm. a
dark shadow arrived at his cell door. “We where close to get, you
know. But it is so kind of you to speed the process up by letting
yourself being caught. Then again i don't know if you did it on
purpose or not. You see Julian you stole so much rich people these
past two years, you would have been condemn to the rope." The voice
paused, chuckling over the sigh of horror on the Jung man's face.
"But you snatched the purse of the wife of a very important person,
who decided that dead was a way to easy exit to the halls of Mandos.
So starting tomorrow you will start a 20 year forced labour for the
city of Minas Tirith. I heard you where assigned to the sewer
cleaning. Have a good night boy." With that said the dark shadow
left the cell leaving a desperate young man.
The next day Julian was escorted to a group of 15 men who looked
and smelled as if they had never touched water of there live. I need
to get out of here. Was the only thought Julian managed to focus on.
He hadn't slept all night and he felt as miserable as ever. The
group got led towards a whole in the ground, and the men where
forced down. The smell was overwhelming, rotten fruit, meat, human
and animal faeces, it was just horrible. Julian bended double and
threw up what ever was in his stomach, witch unfortunately for him,
that wasn't that much.
"Haha looks like the newbie didn't last longer then the record."
An old man whose face was hidden behind a couple of layers of dirt."
the man came to stand next to Julian and helped him up." There is no
escape, the Muinamacar are looking out for that. The rules are
simple, we get dropped into the sewer, we clean the spot we where
assigned to, and we can go home. Be lazy and you will float face
down in the sewer fast enough. a day can go between 5 to 12 hours,
if you are stupid and try to collect items you might find in the
sewer, and believe me that’s a lot, the whole group gets punished to
work up to 15 hours, and believe me that has the same penalty then
being lazy. Now let’s go, and enjoy the smell of live."
Julian wrinkled his nose to the last comment. "What do you mean
the smell of live, if you ask me it’s more the smell of death." The
group smiled all to the young boy and a huge man offered him a hand.
"I am Luke, i was thrown here 15 year ago and that is exactly the
same speech that I got from the priest." The huge man pointed at the
old men who had spoken first." The answer is simple, this foul smell
is basically better then the rope. You might not think that right
now but in a couple of years your nose will be used to this, and you
will realise that this is better then the rope, so the smell of
live. Now lets get bussy."
About five years passed and Julian had become just as dirty but
as committed to the group as the others where. He had heard that
Luke who had done his sentence a couple of weeks ago had joined up
with the Muinamacar. With the group now counting 27 men they where
able to clean bigger rooms in a smaller amount of time. Julian was
now worried for the leader of the group, priest had got life long
and even if he had survived already 23 years, he had gotten ill. And
so it was now Julian who was looked for in times of problem.
“Wake up you dirty lords of flea’s.” Sounded through the barrack
as one of the guards woke the group of men up. “Julian you have to
go to the director right away.” Julian had only time to put on his
dirty shirts when the guard gripped him and impatiently dragged him
to the office of the director. Julian grinned when the director
placed a perfumed hand chief over his nose for the smell.
“Julian you have been with us for five years now. What would you
think if we would offer you to cut your sentence short, give you a
bath, and who knows maybe we can get you a decent job somewhere.”
Julian was stunned he didn’t know what to say but he just nodded
his head. The guard placed a card of the sewer on the desk. Julian
could see that they where a lot of notes made on them but he had
never learned to read so he didn’t knew there meaning. The guard
gave him a pen.
“Julian I need you to correct this plans as fast and as precise
as you can.” The director said.
“So its true, there are people who aren’t supposed to be there in
the sewer system.” Julian blathered out.
“How do you know this” asked the director, wonderfully hiding his
surprise.
“Priest said something was off, he has been in the sewer longer
then anyone else and he suspected that there was illegal activity
going on. I would need to speak to all the guys to get this map as
precise as possible.” He said hoping he wouldn’t have to admit he
couldn’t read and so would screw up his chances of getting out. But
the Director just nodded and Julian was escorted back to the
barracks.
“Okay guys, seems we have the day off today” he said to his
friends who all cheered or looked at him in disbelieve. “We just
need to update this card for them.” He placed the card on the common
table and everybody swarmed around the table. In less then three
hours the men had completely covered the map with notes, from
pointing out unpractical tunnels, to collapsed walls, or new tunnels
made by smugglers. They where just done when one of the guards
barged in.
“Are you all done already?” he asked with a note of panic in his
voice. Julian nodded in agreement. The guard grabbed the map and
Julian’s arm pulling him once again in the direction of the
director’s office. As they got in Julian saw that the director
wasn’t alone, Julian recognised his friend Luke, even if it was the
first time he saw him clean, and next to Luke there was a man who
looked to have a lot of authority in the rangers.
“Captain, this is the boy I was talking you about.” Luke said.
The captain nodded and looked at the map. Then he cursed. “We are
to little to stop this attack. Warn the king we are in full alert.”
He gave the map to Luke, who rushed away. “Director I need to borrow
your men for a while, its time they help protects this city a
little.”
“What!” the old director yelled “they are thief’s, murderers and
rapists! They can not be trusted.”
The captain turned to Julian.” If you can assure that none of
them will run away, and do what I ask of them, you will all be free
to leave.”
Julian nodded.” What do you expect of us Captain?” Julian replied
happy that he was able to take all his group with him to freedom.
“Simple, I want you to lead your group here.” The captain pointed
towards a part of the sewer he knew well.” And I want you to block
anyone who tries to get past you. All those to survive will get a
new live; all those that die will die as free men.”
Julian was still in shock when he arrived at the barracks. He had
turned from criminal to protector of the city over night and it
seemed that a lot of lives would rest on his shoulders. “Okay guys,
I have a ticket out of here, for everyone. “As the men started to
cheer, he held his hand up. “We do have to fight for the flag to get
out. We have been asked to keep the hawk’s claw, enemy free.”
Everyone knew what that meant, Three tunnels from where the enemy
could attack. Only one tunnel to escape. Yet the call of freedom
called out to all of them.
Two days later the 27 men where all hidden around the hawk’s
claw. Behind barrels, and walls. They had all got a cross bow, and
sword. Julian hoped that they wouldn’t get a visit.
The battle had started around midnight, predicting an ambush the
group of foes had lounged an attack from all the three tunnels. As
the men started to shoot, Julian understood why they had gotten
cross bows. They where easy to handle and a lot of attackers lied
dead or wounded before the second salvo was shot. But the men
weren’t Cuner’s and soon the enemy was at short range, time for some
sword fighting.
The hawk’s claw looked horrible with it sounds of metal clashes,
men screaming and the shadows thrown by the fakkels. Julian saw
enemy fall dead, but he also saw friends of him die. As he turned
around to catch a glimpse of the Priest fighting in the farest
corner with five of the younger men He felt a sharp pain in his neck
and then nothing.
Julian died, never knowing most of his men survived and lived
happy lives afterwards. All thankful of having known him.
By Emus Trask
3rd Place of Fireside Tales February 06
My Father's Shoes
My father was a ranger. They weren’t sending him out of the
city much, since he had lost his left arm in a battle many years
before, but he was nonetheless a ranger, and he guarded the City
walls.
I remember a morning, when I woke up from a tickling on my forehead.
It was his big curled moustache that tickled me, as he kissed me
good-by. He had never intended to wake me up, but couldn’t bear
leaving without giving me a kiss. I was his only son, and mother had
died some years previous.
“Dad, where are you going?” I asked, since I saw he was in uniform,
and his sword was at his side.
“To battle.” He answered. “Enemies have come to the City, and are
besieging the walls.”
I sprang up from my bed at once. “I want to go too. I can use a
sword. If the enemy is attacking my City, I want to defend it!”
He smiled sadly. I think in his heart he was proud of me. But his
words were plain. “No, boy.” He said. “You’re too young. You must
stay.”
I argued, of course. I said that I was twelve – quite old enough, as
I thought then. I yelled, cried, threated, begged – to no avail. The
old ranger was adamant. He would not let me go. He even made me
promise I would not go once he couldn’t see me. I had no choice.
When I made at last the promise, his eyes softened. “One day you
will be in my shoes, a ranger of Gondor, brave, as would make your
old father proud. Then you’ll understand.” Now I know he didn’t mean
it literarily. Then I wasan uneducated brat – I did not understand.
My father did not return from the battle that day. They brought back
his body, covered with many wounds. The same day he was burried. But
I took his sword, and his shoes.
The battle wasn’t over yet. The next day, at dawn, I appeared in the
Ranger Headquarters. I was asking to join. They knew me – I had been
there with father many times before. That was, I suppose, the only
reason they didn’t laugh at my oversized shoes.
Yet, war raged outside the walls. They didn’t have time to deal with
little boys. They’re answer was a “No.” even shorter and plainer
than my father’s, and here I knew better than to repeat the scandal
I gave my father.
Some old soldier did try to pacify, to say something like “The boy
but wants to follow in his father’s footsteps, and fill his place
now that he is gone.”, but the only answer that he got was “His
father’s shoes are too big for him. His wish is honourable, but
that’s no reason to let him kill himself. His father wouldn’t have
thanked us for such a service.” And he was right of course.
I did manage to steal out of the city some hours later, tripping
over the big shoes, bearing a sword I could hardly lift. The battle
was nothing like I thought. I’d imagined it would be stately combats
like you might see on the training grounds, rangers elegantly
brandishing their swords, the sun crowning the valiant victors with
laures woven of its golden light. It was nothing like that. It was a
big, bloody, gory mess of pain and death. I slipped over something
sticky, stumbled into something, looked downwards – it was a
beheaded corpse. I heard a strange trumpeting some distance away,
and looked up. I saw a mumak rearing, then falling, crashing all
arround it. Nearer, a rider, one of the Rohirrim, was dragged from
his horse by some ten orcs. I turned and ran, back into the city,
back into the house. I stumbled on the shoes again, fell down on the
cold stone floor, and lay there weeping, weeping out all the tears
that I had in me.
I have become a ranger, as you know. I have returned to the Ranger
Headquarters when my father’s shoes were no longer too big. Here
they stand now in the corner, too old to be worn again. I have grown
out of them anyway by the time I was nineteen.
And now son, I’m leaving to battle. Please promise me that whatever
happens, you will not try to go out and fight this time. I know you
want to, I know you hate hearing that you’re too young. One day, you
will become a ranger as would make me proud. Before that, I want you
to be safe and sound. My shoes are still too big for you. Please
promise. I’ve told you this tale so that you might understand.
By Galastel
Winner of Fireside Tales April 2006
Beyond Love
He ached in desperation; face pressed against the evening
grass. The cool and comforting smell of the earth filled his
nostrils as the wind swept blades of grass tickled his cheek. Arms
outstretched and hands closed into fists the newly laid soil was
soft in his grasp. Somewhere above him the faint buzz of a dragonfly
reached his numbed ears and stirred him from his stupor.
He felt the tightening of the tendons in his neck as he
moved in slow motion to lift his head and found the effort too much
bother. Again all his muscles relaxed and he drank in the reality of
the earth he would be one with. His mind groaned and strained
seeking a way to melt down into the very soil beyond the green of
the grass and somehow mingle into the substance from which all man
comes… the very dust of the earth.
He closed his eyes and saw her face in his mind. Her
laughter echoed inside the silence of his hearing. She had been so
beautiful… so alive; bouncing auburn hair that gleamed in the
sunlight as she ran across the Pelennor to meet him. He had
dismounted and in haste ran to meet her open arms; the memory of her
lightweight form as he lifted her and spun her round and round. Her
eyes stretched wide with wonder. Her mouth flew open; laughing from
the joy of the moment. She was so alive and there was a hopeful and
sure future for them ahead.
He had gone through hell to get back to her. The sweat and
blood and blackened faces of battle had only served to motivate and
increase his determination to find victory and return to her again.
With every shrill singing of metal scraping against metal he heard
her call to come home. Grinding his teeth, his jaw clinched he had
plunged time and again his long sword into the belly of the enemy.
He had watched the mangled and mutant heads of orcs fly from their
shoulders as he swung his weapon with fluidity to meet and move
through sinewy flesh.
His comrades fell to the left and right of him; their faces
showing the agony of battle and the blank stares of death. Still he
would not give up. As a mad man he rampaged and spun first one way
and then another until in the end he was on his knees and yet no
other stood taller. The sickening smell of the blood soaked ground
caused his stomach to retch.
With all the energy he could muster he rose and on weak and
wounded legs staggered from the scene. He sheathed his sword and
wiped his bloodied mouth with his torn and dirty sleeve. Reaching
the nearby stream he fell face first into the cool water. He rolled
over and splashed the gurgling liquid onto his face and torso. It
felt good. The water was hope and as it cooled his body it washed
away the grime that was flecked on his face, arms and hands. He
closed his eyes and let the rippling water sooth him to sleep.
The sun had peeked through the trees and the singing birds
twittered its greeting of the new day. His eyes squinted open and
after a pondering moment of peaceful reality he sat up. His muscles
ached. Yet all he had suffered and done was for his King and his
home. It was for the woman he loved and the children they would one
day have. There was more to love than just words. There was more to
love than simple actions and tokens. What he did was for love but
beyond that. It was for honor and for the way of life of free
people. It went beyond love and was for the hope of his people.
It was all worth it. The men that died beside him did so
for the cause that was greater than they. Middle-earth must be made
safe at all costs…
His mind went back again to her face… that day in the
Pelennor. It had all been worth it. The purpose was clear and their
future was assured. At least he had thought so then. In the depths
of his heart he knew so now, but those depths would not be plumbed
this day.
As he lay face in the grass with his memories he knew that
some things were beyond love and some loves were beyond
comprehension. He lifted his head at last and looked at his fists
full of soil. His arms outstretched and clutching the clods of earth
that had been piled on the fresh grave… her grave.
They had had some years of bliss together and so the battle
and effort had indeed bought them time. But when another group of
orcs came he had not been able to find the same success. He had not
been able to thwart the evilness of the enemy and protect fully this
one he had loved and married.
Just when the despair sought to consume him he heard the
soft padding of running feet behind him. Looking from the week-old
grave of his beloved wife his tear-streaked cheeks turned to face
the sound.
“Daddy!” the small voice of his three year old daughter
called out.
He stood and as she reached him he swept her light form
into his arms and spun her round and round… A touch of warmth
sparked within his heart and within his mind he fondly recalled the
laughter of the past.
By Laielinwen
2nd place of Fireside Tales April 2006
A New Kingdom
Wulfheorte Isilin the Mad, they called him, and he lay down with his
dreams, oblivious to the sounds of the cheers and the din of the
worshippers calling for blood and so on, for all that was of little
mind! Cardolan was broken, Rhudaur a memory! Arthedain would be no
more, and Fornost a ruin until he could rebuild it! Wulfheorte
himself, the great chief, and his band of soldiers, hirelings and
retainers! He would survive and break the hold of the Witch King
himself! He would be owed such a debt of gratitude from the south
Kingdom that a new Kingdom would be his! Yes!
The Elves and Arvedui would never defeat Angmar, but Wulfheorte! Ha!
He had a plan, a cunning and devious plan, and he would strike at
the opportune moment and prove that no matter how great his losses
had been in his raids against the Angmar allied warbands of the
north, that he would have victory most sweet! And had he not opposed
the Witch King himself? Had he not soaked the earth around the feet
of the Nazgul with the blood of dogs! Aye it was so, for he had! He
could see the slain fresh in the memory littering the gore soaked
turf about the feet of the Wraith Lord as Isilin the Warchief strode
forth!
None could oppose him, his tactical genius, his knowledge of the
battle field, the terrain, all came into play in his greatest moment
ever! The snaring of the Witch King! Arnor would be his, risen from
the ashes, and would be named the Kingdom of Isilin!
Night had set in for all was dark, and the cheers were louder, the
crackle of the victory fires was alarmingly loud, and the sounds
thundered in his ears! This was the greatest moment ever!
Then the world seemed to spin crazily and that didn’t seem right.
Wulfheorte’s reverie was broken for a moment, and only a moment,
then there came a thud and a sound like a huge weight landing in the
gravel nearby. Some drunkard fallen off his horse no doubt!
Wulfheorte’s eyes gleamed, and he laughed. He thought he should join
his men so he made to sit up.
He couldn’t. Something was wrong. His arms wouldn’t move from under
him. He heard a strange sound as if there were thousands of giant
hailstones landing on the roof of his hut. More and more they came
as he lay and listened. Settling down. Ah well! What did it matter?
His men were cheering in the new Kingdom and Isilin was a legend!
Outside his confines, the men cheered; but they were not the men of
Wulfheorte Isilin. Under the light of the moon the swarthy skinned
servants of the Witch King finished burying the defiant northern
clansman. Burying him alive...
By Naith Liathant
3rd place of Fireside Tales April 2006
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